


Femminella

by Nurrenbri



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Italian Mafia, M/M, Middle Ages, Minor Violence, Parody, Romantic Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurrenbri/pseuds/Nurrenbri
Summary: ”Right, Steve?””Sure, Derek.”Something that no one told about, but that could well have happened.Dedication:Tommy Angelo. I'm sorry, Tom, I couldn't change that.
Relationships: Steve/Derek
Kudos: 3





	Femminella

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Femminella](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/763131) by Nurrenbri. 



Autumn invaded in Empire Bay. It would seem that there is nothing unexpected, autumn comes every year, for forty years you could get used to it. But here you - every October turns into a natural disaster. All the fury of heaven is raining down on the city, yellow and rusty streams of mud rushing down from the slopes of Hillwood, down to the river and the ocean, through the long-suffering city, as if it has suffered little in its history. It's not the dreary drizzle that happens in Lost-Heaven this time of year. It is as if the heavens are watering their lost child with tears, vainly trying to wash away all the blood and dirt of human souls from his face, which is covered with the wrinkles of the streets. In Empire Bay, the element takes on an imperial dimension. Streets turn into mud rivers, dozens of cars are locked in tunnels, the furious rain knocks down and breaks umbrellas.

It would seem, could it be worse? Let's go down to Southport, the docks of the city, the very gateway to the American Dream for poor overseas migrants. The ocean reigns supreme here. The waves roll over the piers, break through the cracks in the walls of warehouses, bend the gates and doors with a crack, roll back, taking with them all the garbage, debris, scraps of hemp, less often - an empty box or barrel. The dark hulks of the ships sway, the wind howls, driving clouds of water spray across the deserted concrete spaces.

Derek Pappalardo doesn't look out the window — he doesn't have to look out, he already knows he can't get home today. He's not particularly worried about it — the office will withstand the weather, and the sagging and worn sofa, standing here since the thirties, is quite suitable to pass the night. 

But this is a matter for the future. In the meantime, Pappalardo is eating. 

On the plate in front of him is the daily cold steak in gravy. The fork plunges into it, parting the fibers of the meat, and, with a clink of teeth on the plate, it is carried away to the moustache, black as a smear of shoe-polish which sways in continuous chewing. In the yellow light from the electric lamp on the ceiling, his hair, carefully combed back, glistens with greased hair. Small eyes with an absent expression look out from behind half-lowered lids, thick eyebrows are always curved, which gives this face an ironic expression. Pappalardo eats — and even God himself cannot tear him away from this titanic work. 

So, at least, it may seem.

The door swings open, and a small water tornado immediately flies in, a dank wave passing over Derek's ankles, causing him to shiver his shoulders. A tall, angular figure appears in the doorway, water cascading down from it. The figure takes a step, finds itself inside, presses against the door, struggling with the elements rushing outside. After a few long seconds (the steak cools down to the hardness and appetitiousness of the sole), the door finally closes reluctantly. The figure stands for a moment, then, as if hesitating, takes another step, entering the circle of light. 

"Damn it, Steve!" The discarded fork bounces loudly on the plate. "I paid two bucks for the meat! Now everything is the same as chewing gum! What the fuck were you doing out there anyway?" 

"I chillin'." Steve's forehead is sloping, imperceptibly turning into a bald crown, and his gray eyes look unfriendly from under red bushy eyebrows. There is something primal and cavernous in his appearance, and the final touch is a raspy grunt that replaces his speech. Without even thinking about taking off his soaking wet raincoat, he lands his bony butt on a squeaking chair and immediately plunges into reading a week-old Playboy.

Derek has long known that Steve should not be bothered with idle chatter at such times. He's known Steve for quite some time, ever since they first met in the prison shower room, when a few Irish scumbags decided to try "Italian pork with white sauce." Steve was there. A man who beat a police officer half to death had no trouble breaking a pair of freckled noses. Derek managed to get him out of trouble with the prison authorities — and from that moment on, Steve became his stooge. 

Formally. For everyone around. 

The memory made Derek's chest tighten slightly (if only he hadn't had a heart attack). It's amazing that no one has guessed the other side of the relationship between Pappalardo and his enforcer in all these years. Galante might have suspected something, but Don Vinci's old adviser didn't show it. After all, there were a lot of rumors about him, especially after he'd recently returned from prison, and had also made arrangements for young Scaletta's early release. It was not that the families disapproved of this, the subject was at its worst presented in a humorous way, as in the case of Galante. But Derek had a docks and a hundred half-starved workers, held in check by his reputation (and to a lesser extent by Steve's fists). If it were to come out outside the family, his reputation would be ruined.

Still, Derek took the risk. Over and over again. 

"Steve." 

His throat was suddenly tight, and his own voice startled Derek. The look from under the red eyebrows darted to him for a couple of seconds, then returned to looking at another glossy beauty. Steve waited for her to continue. But how hard it was for Derek to say those words every time... 

"Steve, I've been thinking… The weather outside is shitty, and it's going to wash the hell out of you if you stick your nose in the door. So I'm staying in the office today. Perhaps, will you... stay too?" 

Unlike Derek, Steve had never experienced any difficulties. 

”Do you have any lube?" he asked bluntly.  
Pappalardo made a feeble attempt to brush aside: "What the fuck, Steve?! I don't know at all…"

"HRrrrmph..." With that snarl, Steve said what he thought of Derek's repeated attempts to delay his own request. Pappalardo sighed, abandoning his pathetic attempts to hide his interest. 

"We'll figure something out." He dipped his fingers in the thickening gravy of the steak and held it out awkwardly to Steve. The man's hard gaze bored into him, and Derek almost thought (and that made his chest ache again) that the assistant was going to tell him to go to hell and leave, slamming the door and leaving Derek to enjoy himself with the handle of a broken shoe horn. 

But Steve didn't tell him to go to hell. He folded the magazine and grumed. " Get undressed."

With a sigh, Derek pushed his belly out from behind the desk and began to fumble with his trouser belt, puffing. Sensitivity and tenderness were as alien to Steve as awkwardness. Maybe the pigs on his parents ' farm in Birkland, whom he'd fucked since he was twelve, didn't need a kind word or even a sensual kiss, but Derek, despite the opinion of most of his workers, wasn't a pig after all. Steve's rudeness hit him again, just like the first time. It hurts so much. So insulting… So exciting. 

For delicacy and tenderness, would go to your wife, as Steve once said. 

The pants finally gave way to his onslaught, and in time-a little more, and the fabric around the fly would have started to smoke — so hot was it in Derek's groin right now. Desire surged into his head, making his moustache bristle belligerently. Steve, as if in mockery, unhurriedly released his sinewy, as angular as himself, member and, scooping up more of the cooled fat from the plate, began to smear it, from the maroon head to the first red hairs of the shriveled scrotum in anticipation. Pappalardo swallowed hard.

"Backside today, as usual?" his own voice wouldn't obey him, and neither would his own hamstrings, but he couldn't just fall to the floor, or Steve would have taken it as a willingness to get started. For a while, Derek hesitated between jumping on Steve's boner while he was still sitting on the chair, or going to the couch and waiting for him, showing that he hadn't completely lost the last vestiges of his dignity. This time (fortunately for the chair), the latter got the better of him, although Derek felt that he wouldn't be able to restrain himself next time. 

"Right, Steve?" he asked hoarsely. 

"Sure, Derek." Steve wiped his greasy hand on his lap and picked up his plate, heaving himself out of his chair. Deciding that he had endured enough, Pappalardo slumped down on the sofa and shifted, settling his bulky stomach more comfortably — doing this on all fours was out of the question, although the risk of a heart attack might have added a certain spice to their entertainment. Steve walked over to him, and Derek squeezed his eyes shut out of habit as his subordinate's newly greased fingers slid inside without any delicacy. His sphincter flared up like put in a hot dog with jalapeno sauce (so the fat man thought, he was smart enough not to try to compare these sensations by experience).

So, his ass was on fire, and he wanted to relieve himself, but Derek was patient — because this procedure was one of the small concessions that he had managed to get from the sometimes overzealous Steve. Of course, even four fingers didn't feel as good as his cock, but it did help prepare him a little for what was coming next. Something Pappalardo would never have done if it hadn't been for the damn quirk. 

Something to what Steve had just started. 

"WOOORGH!.." Derek's face fell in that guttural exhalation, tears spurting from his eyes, his mustache standing on end. Even though Steve hadn't forgotten to lubricate it, as he had the time before, the cutting pain still lashed out like butcher hooks. Bony, angular Steve loomed over him, gripping Derek's shoulders. He went out, sucking in air through his clenched teeth, and with another gasp, he drove himself into the swaying flesh of Derek's fat ass. Pappalardo gave a thin, almost pig-like squeal, and no longer uttered anything but moaning breaths as Steve, growling, picked up the pace and began to drive into his ass with the tenacity of a jackhammer. The strong meat smell of the gravy warmed by their friction hung in the air. Steve's face twisted into a tight grin, large drops of sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and spilling onto Derek's shuddering back. Derek felt sick, as he usually did at the beginning. It was necessary to speed up the process, and he, turning purple from the effort, began to roll on his side, trying to reach his burning penis through his stomach.

"Don't flutter!" Steve snapped, stopping the outrage with a punch to the fat man's sweaty shoulder blade. Derek's stifled cry was choked by a cough, and he obediently froze, only lightly rubbing his cock against the sofa cushions in the hope that at least today they would cumming at the same time. 

"Move forward." 

Derek froze. Steve froze, too. For a while, the only sound in the room was the heavy breathing of two middle-aged men. 

"Move. On the armrest." 

Steve growled again, pushing impatiently against Derek. With a gasp, the perplexed fat man obeyed. And then he gasped a second time, feeling the hard, knobby fingers on his cock. With a growl, Steve began to clean out Derek's gut again, but Derek was no longer paying attention to the pain, because something incredible had happened, something that had splashed a whole tank of gasoline into his flames of lust. And he began to move toward it, ignoring the shortness of breath and the darkness that filled his eyes as Steve's hand moved faster and faster over his cock, scratching it almost to the point of bleeding with its calluses. 

"Right, Steve," Pappalardo groaned. 

"Sure, Derek," Steve croaked back. 

Faster and faster. There is no more pain, just a sweet feeling that needs to be given an outlet. Out, immediately, so that it would fill their little world, leaving behind only a slightly bitter, raw desolation.

"Right, Steve!..."

"Sure, Derek!" 

Faster and faster. Steve's face turns purple.

"Right, Steve!" 

"Sure, Derek!" 

Pappalardo eyes on the forehead climb. It seems that a little more — and he will tear off his legs with an explosion of pleasure. More! MORE!

Here it is! Derek's body shakes spasmodically. Steve growls, trying to push through him to the couch. 

"STEVE!" 

"DEREK!"

*** 

After catching their breath and rinsing in the sink, they lie on the couch. Not in a hug — Derek had reached his limit on gentle Steve for the next week. It wouldn't bother him for the first couple of days, though, since Steve had given him more tonight than he had in the last fifteen years. And then ... will it be, is it then ... 

"Steve?" he whispers hoarsely. 

"What, Derek?" Steve grumbles sleepily, peering out from under his red bushy eyebrows. 

"Hey, can we do it differently next time? For a change? Maybe ... maybe I'll stick in you next time? Eh, Steve?" 

Derek knows that's not going to happen. And Steve knows that Derek knows this, and he knows that right now he can say anything — until the next time, those words will still be forgotten. No matter what Derek was saying, he wouldn't do it, even if Steve was stretching out in front of him, spreading his skinny, freckled buttocks with his hands. 

After all, it is so painful and pleasant for him, who has subjugated so many, to be submit... 

"Sure, Derek," Steve replies, turning away and immediately falling asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Describing the situation with the accepting of homosexuality by families, I was based on conclusions drawn from the in-game atmosphere. With the real situation in those days, the situation could be somewhat different. However, let's be honest - do you often look for a justification in a slash-fic?


End file.
